


That Weekend of Which We Do Not Speak

by alexxphoenix42



Series: A Magic Moment [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Crack, Gay Sex, I warned you all, M/M, Porn with a smidge of plot, Potterlock, Tentacles, and a dollop of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-21
Updated: 2014-10-21
Packaged: 2018-02-22 01:36:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2489639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexxphoenix42/pseuds/alexxphoenix42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock had a new sex-aid potion he was dying to try out. Bonus, John had a new spell that he was certain would enhance its effects! Mixing two highly experimental bits of magic on each other at the same time – what could possibly go wrong?</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Weekend of Which We Do Not Speak

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know why I wrote this. Honestly I found the first few tentacle fics I read supremely disturbing. (Notice that I did keep reading them. ;) I guess I always feel the need to push at my boundaries, and see where I can take them. Blame the muses for dropping this bit of porny crack into my brain. Enjoy the madness!

_(It’s not quite Retirementlock, but I have our chaps at their cottage in Sussex in their early 30’s.)_

 

.oOo.

A brisk knock sounded on the front door. John glanced at the hall clock as he moved to answer it. _Late,_ flashed through his mind. 

It was inevitable after John and Sherlock won “Distinguished Wizard of the Year” awards for their Ebola-curing potion that the journalists would begin descending en masse. Sherlock delighted in conversing with staff from the technical journals, but he left it to John to manage things when _Witch Weekly_ sent someone to interview them for a "more personal slant."

John opened the door to a very attractive Witch standing on their welcome mat. She nearly shimmered, dressed head to toe in a vibrant purple with a multitude of clashing colourful bags hung around her person. "Hello there," John said.

She smiled, lifting a hand with shockingly-pink nails to shake, "Oh, good mor . . ." and promptly upended one of her carryalls across the step. All manner of odds and ends rained down between them. The woman blushed crimson. Her smart hat slipped sideways off her ginger corkscrew curls, as she bent to retrieve quills, notebooks, sweets, and lip gloss now scattered at their feet.

“Here, let me help you," John said, squatting down to catch a bottle of ink before it rolled into their rose bushes. 

“That’s too kind of you,” The woman said, accepting the bottle to toss back into her bag with the rest of the reclaimed things. “Sorry, so sorry, for this," she said, waving a hand about, "and for being so horribly late." She rose, straightening her hat. "Apparently I’ve been looking for your house in the town over by mistake . . . and on that terrible note, I’m Dominique Weasley from _Witch Weekly_.” She managed to extend a hand with no damage incurred this time. “It’s such an honor to speak with you, Mr. Watson. Thank you so much for agreeing to meet with me.” 

“Dominique . . . you aren’t Victoire Weasley’s little sister by any chance are you?” John smiled as her clasped her outstretched palm. “Though I suppose I need to call her Victoire Lupin now.”

“I am,” The woman said a bit sheepishly. “She’ll give me such hell if she ever hears how badly I’ve bungled this interview already.” 

“Oh, she never will.” John smiled even broader. “Older sisters are terrible things, aren’t they? I've one myself. Do come in, please.” 

"Thank you so much." Dominque fairly beamed.

“I haven’t seen Victoire or Teddy in forever. How are they?” John asked as he led her to the sitting room where the most comfortable chairs, and the best afternoon light were to be found. John had played Quidditch with Victoire and her husband Teddy Lupin back in his Hogwarts days. It was terrible that it had been so long since he’d gotten together with his old friends. 

“Oh, they’re good,” Dominique assured him. “I saw them a fortnight ago at a family party. I told them I might be interviewing you and Mr. Holmes, and they were thrilled to hear it. Teddy said I had to ask you something rude like what color underwear you wore on Mondays or some such rot.” She laughed as she settled into the chair John offered. 

John chuckled a bit awkwardly. “That Teddy – what a comedian.” He shook his head. “Please, call us John and Sherlock, we don’t need to be formal, do we?”

“No, certainly not,” Dominique said rummaging through one of her bags. She finally located a scroll and quill that she set on the table beside her. “Is Mr. Holm . . . Sherlock going to be joining us?” She looked hopefully around their small, cozy sitting room as if he might be hiding behind the grandfather clock, or pillows on the settee. 

“Yes, of course, but I thought we could get settled before I roust him. He’s in the midst of some tricky potion experiments, and he hates to be interrupted unless absolutely necessary. Can I get you some tea? Biscuits?”

“Thank you, yes to both. That would be lovely.” 

“If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just be a moment," John said before making his way to the rooms at the back of the cottage.

When he returned, it was with a large tea service floating behind him like a particularly obedient dog. With a flick of his wand, the tray zoomed over to settle neatly next to Dominique’s things on the table. John tilted his head to the side as he neared to pour the tea, reading a bit of what the magic quill had already managed to scribble out “. . . shown to their somewhat decrepit, mismatched sitting room to worn-out chairs clearly past their best days . . .” 

“Well, I don’t think our sitting room is THAT worn,” John said glancing around at the state of the place. It hadn't changed since that morning - comfy rugs over the floor, framed illustrations of local plants on the walls, and yes, the godawful rainbow-colored pots that Harry had made in rehab atop one of the bookcases. Still, it wasn’t that bad.

“Oh, MERLIN, I’m so sorry.” Dominique snatched up the offending quill, and stuffed it back into a bag. “I hate those automatic quills. They have such a mind of their own. I only meant to use one that records what people say. You don’t mind do you?” The Witch blushed prettily across her cheekbones, and John could definitely see the Veela heritage in her face. Both she and her sister Victoire were gorgeous women. 

“No, that’s fine,” John reassured her. “We’ve met before haven’t we?” He asked, passing Dominique a cup of tea. “At Vic and Teddy’s wedding?”

“We did actually,” The woman said, selecting one of the shortbread biscuits from the plate that John held out. “Though I can see how you might not recognize me from before. I was deep in my emo, wearing-only-black phase at that point, and I had all the earrings.” Dominique waved vaguely toward the side of her head. “But as you can see, I got better.” She bit ruefully into her biscuit. 

“Oh, we all have things from our teenaged years we’d like to forget, don’t we?” John said kindly as he seated himself with his own cup. “So how long have you been working for _Witch Weekly?_ ”

“Only a year,” Dominique said. “Before that, I had a stint at _Beautiful Magical Homes._ I wrote the garden column. It was dull stuff, let me tell you. No, I’m truly chuffed to be doing interviews for _Witch Weekly_ now. It’s a good job, but I had to really pull some favours to get this assignment to see you and Mr. Holm . . . Sherlock. It helped when I said I already knew you. Well, sort of knew . . .” 

Dominique trailed off as Sherlock picked that moment to swan into the room. His reading spectacles sat perched on the end of his nose, and the tails of his dressing gown flapped around him as he made a beeline for his favorite chair by the window. The woman made to stand up to greet him, but Sherlock just waved her off. 

“No, no, don’t get up. Pleasure to meet you. Sorry for being so late.” Sherlock exhaled all in one breath, and plopped himself into his chair looking half done in. “Oh, good, tea. I’ll take a cup.” He perked up at the sight of John with a teapot by his hands.

“Of course, love.” John smiled passing him a cup after stirring a tablespoon of sugar into it.

“John, did you know that the snakeweed root does much better if it’s parboiled before adding it in with the asphodel?” Sherlock said before taking a healthy swallow of his tea.

“Hmm, that does sound interesting,” John agreed. “But I’m sure our guest doesn’t want to hear too many technical potion details today. This is the journalist from _Witch Weekly_ , Dominique Weasley. She also happens to be Victoire Lupin’s little sister."

If John had thought that Dominique was nervous before, it was nothing to the alarming shade of scarlet she had turned now as she leaned in to all but gush at Sherlock, nearly upsetting the cup of tea at her elbow.

“Mr. Holmes, I’m so pleased to be able to interview you today. I’m such a fan of your work, and the whole world is in such a debt to your advancement in gender reassignment spells, and infectious disease reversal,” She blurted out in a rush.

Sherlock removed his reading glasses and dropped them into the top pocket of his dressing gown to peer more closely at the eye-poppingly colourful woman who had infiltrated their otherwise sedate living room. “How nice to have a fan to speak with us today. I thank you for your kind words, but call me Sherlock, please.” 

Sherlock let a small smile play about his full lips as he steepled his fingers under his chin. He could be rude when he wasn’t thinking, but it was untrue when people said he was ill-mannered, John mused. When he chose to turn the Holmsian charm on, few were immune.

“Mr. Holm . . . _Sherlock,_ you’ve simply changed the face of modern healing as we know it . . . and Healer Watson as well of course.” Dominique remembered herself, and glanced over to include John in her praise. Although not the Potions Master that Sherlock was, John had of course assisted his husband in several of his biggest break-throughs. “I apologize if this is an interruption to your great work,” The woman finished.

“Not at all, not at all,” Sherlock demurred, sitting back and crossing his legs to settle in for the duration. “Always pleased to answer questions for our supporters.” 

“I’m afraid some of the questions are quite silly,” Dominique said, looking at the page she had pulled out of a puce-colored folder in her lap. “I’m sorry, I have to ask them . . . the magazine insists, you know.”

“Please, ask away. We are at your disposal.” Sherlock flashed the woman such a heated look that she nearly dropped her paper. _Oh, this man. What a flirt._ John thought not-uncharitably as he smiled softly at his husband.

“First question, what is your favorite color?”

John dredged up “blue” for his answer, and Sherlock settled on “black” with only the merest of eye rolls. 

Things lurched along in this vein through favorite breakfast, best location away for holidays, favorite time of year, and what job you would most like to have besides your own until they reached “ . . . and what is your favourite sort of pet?” 

“Well, we can answer _that_ one easily enough,” John said standing up, grateful for a diversion. “I didn’t want to let her out to bother company, but since you’re Victoire’s sister. . ." John stepped down the corridor, and opened a door. The large bundle of yellow fur that he released streaked into the living room like a comet. It pounced straight onto Dominique’s lap and set to licking over the woman’s cheeks like some marauding bath sponge, knocking her fancy purple hat right to the floor. She shrieked in surprise.

“EMMA, DOWN!” Sherlock’s deep voice rumbled out, and the large dog backed off immediately. She set all four paws to the floor with a click, hanging her head at being scolded so. Honestly, no creature alive could resist that rich baritone at its most commanding.

John stepped toward a very mussed Dominique, a hand raised in concern, “God, are you all right?” He asked, but she simply slid from the chair to her knees, burying her hands in the dog's fur.

“Oh, WHO’S a good girl? What a lovely girl!” Dominique cooed, scratching Emma about the neck and ears. She looked up at John with such a delighted grin across her face that he had to smile back. “I can’t have a dog where I live in London, but I miss them so. We always had dogs when I was growing up." She continued her attentions, stroking along the dog's back to pat her flank. "This one is such a beauty! Aren't you, luv? Just brilliant. Golden retriever?” She asked looking over at Sherlock.

“She is indeed, and a very naughty one at that,” Sherlock answered, mock scowling at the canine as she came to nudge against his knees in apology. When he finally consented to pet her, the dog's tail wagged in near paroxysms of joy at being forgiven.

“Yes, this unmannered beast is called Emma,” John said, bending to retrieve the Witch’s hat from the floor. “I named her for a Muggle cousin of mine.” He handed Dominque the slightly-squashed accessory with an apologetic smile. “You might have heard of her, Emma Watson – makes Muggle movies, did some diplomatic work with the U.N.? We’re quite proud of Emma. Human Emma, not the dog, though we’re quite fond of her too.”

“Sorry, doesn’t ring a bell, though I don’t keep up with the Muggle news as I should,” Dominique admitted, reshaping her hat to snug onto her head as she took her seat again. 

“No worries.” John shrugged. “She just reminded me so much of my cousin. Not that human Emma is rude, mind you, just very sure of herself. Smart too.”

Though John was embarrassed at having a guest assaulted in their house, the addition of Emma had markedly relaxed the atmosphere in the room, and he couldn't help being grateful. They chatted much more amiably as the dog settled to doze at Sherlock’s feet. 

“I was allowed to add a few of my own questions,” Dominique admitted later. “I hope you don’t mind?” At murmured assents from each man she continued. “I’ve read that we learn more from our mistakes than our successes. Could you tell me about a time when you made an error in your work, but ended up learning something good from it?”

John didn’t mean to do it, but a blush stole across his cheeks. His eyes flew to catch Sherlock’s gaze, and by the red creeping up his husband’s neck, he knew Sherlock was dredging up the exact same memory he was. It was an incident they had chosen not to obliviate, but it was something that was best left buried - buried in the deepest, darkest fault in the ocean’s floor in fact, and never spoken of again. 

They’d still been in that shabby little flat near Marylebone Road in Muggle-centric London. John had liked the familiarity of Muggles nearby, and Sherlock had enjoyed the variety of their neighbors to observe. John had been mad busy doing his training at St. Mungo’s, and Sherlock had been on his toes working under Madame Meliflorus Maelstrom, one of the top Potion Masters in the U.K. when they’d found themselves with a whole three days free. Rather than take a mini-break away, they’d hit on the bright idea of a dirty weekend at home. Sherlock had developed a sex-aid potion that he wanted to try out, and John had devised a new spell to enhance it. Mixing two highly experimental bits of magic on each other at the same time – what could possibly go wrong? Oh, the hubris of youth, John sighed to himself. Things had started out well enough, John had to admit, but sadly it had not all _finished_ quite to plan.

.oOo.

_Ten years earlier_

John let himself into the flat, late as usual. He threw his bag on the floor by the door, hung his coat on a peg, and groaned as he stretched his back. His shift at St. Mungo’s had run long, but he was home now, and he and Sherlock had all of Bank Holiday weekend stretching before them. The place smelled delicious, and John followed the aromas of cooking food into the kitchen.

“Honey, I’m home!” John called out, walking into the kitchen to find something interesting bubbling away inside the oven, but no sexy boyfriend around. He continued his search, poking his head into the loo, and checking the bedroom at the end of the hall to no good results. He was just about to head upstairs to Sherlock’s workroom when a tall, warm wall enveloped him from behind, arms sliding around his middle. 

“Mmmm, you’re home,” A lovely baritone rumbled over his ear as soft lips nuzzled against his temple, dropping little kisses along the side of his face to his jaw.

“Sorry I’m late,” John said, turning in his love’s arms to kiss him properly. They’d been living together for more than a year now, but John still couldn’t get over how lucky he was to kiss that wonderful mouth every day . . . or hold onto that lovely arse. He let his hands slide down to grab a double handful. Sherlock responded by sliding his hands into John’s back pockets. 

“You’re always late,” Sherlock countered when their mouths parted, hands still firmly attached. “Ergo, you are home at your usual arrival time.”

“Ergh. That makes me sound like a full-time git.” John pulled a face.

“John, we both knew you’d be busy during your training years. It will get easier when you’re a licensed healer.”

"I know. But at least we’ve got this whole weekend, yeh?” John let a predatory smile unfurl over his face, and watched as Sherlock’s pupils widened in response.

“I’ve been thinking about it all week,” Sherlock admitted dropping his voice low. Suddenly, they were snogging heatedly again, Sherlock’s tongue dipping into John’s mouth, as his tongue replied back in a wonderful game of charge and retreat. When John’s stomach rumbled, they pulled away with a chuckle. 

“Hungry? Dinner should be about done.” Sherlock smiled, and tugged John back towards the hall.

“I’m starving,” John admitted following him into the kitchen, “and it smells fantastic. What is it?”

“Beef bourguignon. It’s your mother’s recipe,” Sherlock said, pulling out his wand to give it a little wave toward the kitchen. Instantly, the casserole slid itself out of the oven to join plates, glasses, and cutlery in a whirl that settled at the table in the sitting room. 

“You didn’t have to go to so much trouble,” John said.

“Nonsense. I need you to keep your strength up before I have my wicked way with you this weekend.” Sherlock wagged his eyebrows suggestively before sending a bottle of wine over to pour itself out into their two waiting glasses.

“Sounds like a great plan to me,” John said seating himself at the table, and spooning up portions for the two of them. “Mmm, fantastic.” John moaned at his first bite. “I’m sorry I don’t do more of the cooking, but honestly, love, you do such an amazing job.” 

“I’m a potions expert, John. Cooking dinner is hardly more complicated.” Sherlock waved him off, but a pleased smile had found its way to his mouth just the same. “So how was your day?” He asked, taking a bite of his own.

“Busy as always.” John sighed. “We had the usual stuff – on top of a twelve year old who’d splinched herself trying out some unsanctioned apparating, and a man who’d changed into a giant sea turtle, and couldn’t switch back. His wife had been trying to reverse him for three days before she finally brought him in.” 

“One wonders why she waited so long.” Sherlock lifted one eyebrow eloquently. 

“He never stopped talking once we got him back to human form. I suppose she was enjoying the quiet.” John chuckled. “How were things at chez Madame Maelstrom?”

“Busy as well,” Sherlock echoed. “We had to get together a batch of anti-flu elixir, and a custom order for a performance-enhancing potion.” 

“Speaking of performance-enhancing, did you manage to finish . . .” John trailed off suggestively.

“I did,” Sherlock said quite smugly, pulling a small bottle of pale blue liquid from a pocket that he set reverently on the table between them. 

It was something they’d been joking about for months – the possibility of a shape-shifting magic that would make things more interesting in the bedroom for a night. There were always marital aid spells that one could get in certain shops, but most of them were simply energy-boosting draughts. John and Sherlock had both put their not-unintelligent minds to the problem, and they were certain they’d come up with something spectacular to try out. If things went well, it was something they could even try marketing themselves later. They finished dinner very quickly after that, John sending the dishes to wash with a negligent wave of his wand on their hurried way to the bedroom. 

John turned on a side lamp leaving the overhead lights off as Sherlock placed the almost ominously swirling bottle of pearly-blue liquid on the bedside table. At one shared look, their hands flew to their clothes, pulling open buttons, and undoing zips as quickly as possible. John forgot to take his shoes off at first, and nearly tripped trying to pull his trousers off before he sat on the edge of the bed, and sorted his clothes out more reasonably. He'd gotten down to his pants when he glanced over to see Sherlock ahead of him, already stripped nude, and reaching for the potion bottle.

“Wait.” John stopped him. “Just one minute, love, I’ve hardly had a chance to look at you properly in weeks.” John smiled, as Sherlock straightened up, letting his hands fall to his sides to stand bathed half in light and half in shadow before him. 

The soft light fell across his alabaster skin, highlighting the flat planes of his chest and stomach, his long ropy limbs, and that sweet cock barely starting to stir. John’s own penis swelled in sympathy just looking at him. Tilting his head back, John looked up to meet the amused grey stare beaming down at him. The side light made a halo of the black curls hanging from his head in a dark cloud. Sherlock was always threatening to cut them off, and John wouldn’t let him. 

“Like what you see?” His love purred, a ghost of a smile playing over his lips.

“Come here, you.” John crooked a finger, parting his legs for Sherlock to fit between them. Sherlock moved obligingly in until he was near enough for John to wrap his arms around him, pulling his belly close to run his mouth over skin that looked cool as marble but felt so warm under his lips. He opened his mouth to lick a stripe just under his navel. “Mmmm, you do taste as good as you look.” 

Sherlock lost his patience with John’s teasing, and climbed onto his lover’s lap, pushing the shorter man back into the mattress to sprawl over him. He thrust long fingers into the soft slip of John’s hair, and took his mouth in a kiss that left both of them panting for breath. 

“We don’t have to do this, if you don’t want to, John. I’m more than happy to have you the usual way.” Sherlock propped himself up on one elbow to meet John’s gaze.

“Nothing with you is usual, love.” John reached up to cup a hand to the side of his face, “but no, we’ve been planning this forever. We can’t sod off now. This is for research!”

“There’s my brave man.” Sherlock grinned, dipping down to lay a quick kiss to John’s forehead. He scrambled back off John in a move that would have looked awkward on anyone else, but on Sherlock was simply elegant. 

John worked his way out of his briefs, then flipped onto his belly to hang off the side of the bed, and root through his clothes on the floor for his wand. He finally gave up, calling out “ _Accio_ wand” to have the thing fly from the corner where it had rolled. By the time he had it in hand, Sherlock was back on the bed holding the open bottle and two soup spoons. 

“Here.” He handed John one of the spoons, and poured a dollop of the thick pearly potion into it. He turned the bottle back to pour himself a dose, then set the empty container on the nearby night stand. Sherlock’s pale blue concoction should, if all went to plan create a hermaphroditic condition in its user for at least six hours. The magic wouldn’t create a true penis and testes on a woman, or a functioning uterus in a man. Theoretically though, it would elongate a woman’s clitoris into a penis-like structure, or create a concave hollow lined with sensitive nerves in a man’s perineum that would function for all intents and purposes like a vagina. John had found a spell for enhancing vision and hearing, and tweaked in such a way that it should increase sensitivity of touch instead. If all went according to plan, they were about to enter Nirvana via a double bed on Baker Street. 

“Ready?” Sherlock grinned wildly at him. 

“Ready,” John agreed, wand in hand. He pointed its tip toward the spoons held near their lips, and called out “ _Adauge tactus_ ” with as much authority as he could manage. They swallowed the iridescent goo down in one go, gulping at nearly the exact same moment.

They had each tried polyjuice potion in the past, and they could both attest later that this shift was worse. Spoons and wand flew from their fingers to land somewhere across the room as they collapsed back on the bed writhing with the pain of the metamorphosis.

John must have blacked out for a moment, for there existed a sharp delineation between what used to be, and what was now. When he swam back to consciousness, trying to gather his scattered wits about him, it was to an entirely new paradigm of perception. John felt an almost over-loading cascade of sensations from his groin from what he realized eventually was merely the slight air currents in the room sliding over his naked form. He turned his head to see Sherlock passed out on the bed next to him. He tried to reach out to him, but found his arms too heavy to move. He settled for running his eyes frantically over his love instead. His face was turned away from John, but his chest was rising and falling in a reassuring manner. John looked down his body until he reached his lower torso, and then his brain almost refused to process what he saw there. Sherlock had four long thin appendages, they could only be called tentacles protruding from his groin in a curved line around his penis. They lay half curled in repose, extending across his thighs, and spilling onto the mattress. 

Sherlock gasped then, and turned his head to face John. He too looked quickly down John’s body, his eyes widening in shock at what he saw. John knew what he would see when he was able to lift his head and glance down at his own body. Yep. Thin hairless tentacles the same color as his skin, clustered around his cock, extending from his body to flop across the bed. 

“Oh, shite,” John groaned, happy to find that at least his power of speech had returned. What had they done?

“John . . . John.” Sherlock seemed to be having some kind of seizure. Without even thinking, John rolled over to reach him, and nearly passed out again when he accidentally landed on his new appendages. He thought about moving them out of the way, and as naturally as moving a hand, the tentacles lifted and pulled themselves out from under his body . . . to of course reach toward Sherlock where his hands were already headed. When his tentacles connected with Sherlock, tangling in with his new limbs, both men arched as if electrocuted. John felt as though a thousand small fingers had just run themselves along his cock and squeezed. After a minute where John struggled to breathe through the intense jolts of pleasure coursing through his system, he found the sensations were finally settling down to something he could handle, and not just endless waves of bliss buffeting him about like a tiny boat in a tsunami. 

“John, we’ve grown . . .” 

“Tentacles.” John supplied the word to finish Sherlock’s hanging sentence. He was surprised when one of his upper tentacles lifted to tenderly stroke Sherlock’s face. An entirely new set of pleasurable shocks coursed through him from the connection. 

Sherlock was obviously gaining better control of his body as his tentacles began to shift with more coordination. He rolled carefully on to his side to face John, his face simply glowing with a look of gobsmacked wonder.

“They feel . . . “

“Amazing,” John breathed.

“John.” Sherlock closed his eyes, and made that face that meant he was surrendering to pure feeling, and letting his massive brain go quiet. It was a rare and wonderful sight.

John stopped thinking himself, and let his libido reach out to his lover with pure want. “Oh baby, come to Papa.” John crooned. Sherlock merely gargled in reply. 

John found that the tentacles both moved to conscious commands, but also seemed to have a will of their own, tied in to some subconscious layer that knew exactly where to slip and stroke to best effect. Sherlock, sensual creature that he was under his great intellect, got the hang of it first. While John was lightly running his tentacles up and down over Sherlock’s front and back, enjoying making teasing passes over his straining cock, John was treated to tentacles slick with their own secretions sneaking around to probe against his bottom. One found the furled pucker to his arse stroking repeatedly over it, while a second teased at the opening to his freshly-added quim – a new feature he hadn’t even noticed what with all the fuss about the new appendages to process. Another of Sherlock’s slippery tendrils worked its way up past his neck to slip shyly into his mouth, playing footsie with his tongue. It flooded him with the musky clean taste of Sherlock, and a strange sweet flavour that seemed to be the natural lubricant of the tentacle itself. John sucked eagerly on the end of the whip-like limb, and Sherlock keened. The tentacles were sensitive things.

John wasn’t quite prepared when the two tentacles prowling between his legs breached his two entrances simultaneously. While he and Sherlock had enjoyed anal lovemaking before, double penetration came as a whole new experience. John was simply engulfed in the feeling of pleasurable fullness in so many places at once. The tentacles were able to slip deeply inside him, going farther than a cock could ever reach, and with the preciseness of a loving finger, able to nudge against his prostrate and new g-spot in ways he had never felt before. John was having trouble dragging oxygen into his lungs, a predicament that escalated to no breathing at all when a final prehensile limb brushed through his own tentacles to wrap itself around his almost forgotten cock, pulling and stroking in a nearly impossible way. John came then with a great gasp like a firecracker popping, pumping out stripes of cum over himself, and his lover, and the many strange appendages that had wound their way through and around them. 

As the sparks cleared from his vision, John set out with a vengeance to find what his own far-reaching limbs could do. He was beyond pleased when he reduced Sherlock to a mewling, sweating mess when he held his tentacles more rigid to thrust deeply into every crevice he could find in Sherlock’s body. His lover came so hard, he shot spunk across the room to decorate the far wall. 

When they discovered that the effects of their magics extended to giving them both an amazing stamina as well as a negligible recovery time, they had each other every way they could possibly contort themselves into over the course of the night. John found he could wind two tentacles through Sherlock’s curls and pull just so to make his lover come completely undone whilst he fucked him senseless elsewhere. Sherlock’s tentacles learned how to wind their way around John’s balls to squeeze, and pull down as others milked his cock in endless configurations. They both found they could paint their lover’s bodies with the slick secretions from the tentacles, and then lick it slowly off.

Just before dawn, they discovered that it was also highly pleasurable to simply entwine the tentacles themselves, letting them stroke and twist against each other in a Celtic knot work of bliss. When they had finally worn themselves out to exhausted limp rags, they collapsed into a dreamless sleep still interlaced in a complicated, surreal tangle of limbs both natural and magical.

.oOo.

Sherlock woke first in the harsh light of day. It was the sharp note of distress in his voice that quickly pulled John to full awareness beside him. “John. _John_ , wake up. We’re stuck.” 

“What the hell?” John blinked awake to a sticky soreness, and the discovery that during their sleep, the tentacles had worked themselves simply everywhere. They had buried deeply into both their arses, and pussies, twisted every which way to pin their arms and legs together, and even twined their way through the slats of the headboard before swelling firmly in place. Any sort of movement at all hurt immensely. They were good and truly anchored where they lay.

“How long is the potion meant to last?” John croaked, trying not to immediately jump into a state when there was absolutely nothing a flight or fight response would do to help. His mouth was so dry, he could hardly speak.

“It was only meant to last six hours - eight at the most,” Sherlock nearly squeaked.

A bright, merciless ray of sunlight had worked its way between the bedroom curtains to burn a hole right into John's brain. Twist as he might, he couldn’t quite manage to escape it. 

“Ouch, John, stop,” Sherlock yelped as his movements pulled on their sensitive tangle of limbs.

“Can you see the clock – what time is it now? It must be past noon.” John scrunched his eyes closed in defense.

Sherlock had the best bet for a look at the clock on the bedside table. With careful craning of his neck, he was just able to make out half one. “We took the potion at about 10 o’clock last night, it really should have worked its way out by now.” Sherlock’s worried voice soared to an all-time high note. 

“Right, let’s get a wand in here, and see what we can sort out. _Accio_ Wand,” John called out. Nothing happened. John's forehead wrinkled in concern. “What the bloody hell? It should just be down on the floor in here somewhere. _ACCIO_ WAND!” He yelled more firmly. Sadly, a complete lack of wand continued.

“All right you try.” John looked at Sherlock with something akin to panic, but a lesser cousin still somewhat manageable. 

“I left mine in the kitchen,” Sherlock said, naked fear now dancing in his eyes. “ _Accio_ Wand!” He tried. The silence was deafening. Not a single scrape of a wand in the next room trying to reach them was heard. 

“Okay, let’s review our options,” John said as level-headedly as he was able. “We could call for help, but it’s only Muggles around us, and this would completely freak them out. We can do it if we need to, but we’ll have to obliviate the memory out of everyone who sees us.” 

“Mrs. Hudson is in Cornwall with her sister,” Sherlock moaned. Of course their sweet but nosy landlady who lived downstairs was gone for the weekend. 

“Mrs. Turner’s married ones?” John asked hopefully. Occasionally their next-door neighbors would bang on the walls when things got too loud at 221B.

“They told me they were off to Paris for the holiday just last week.” Sherlock bit at his chapped lips.

“What about our owls? Can we call them?” John all but squeaked. 

“They aren’t back from delivering those packages to your sister. John . . .” Sherlock blinked his eyes like an owl himself. “We’re doomed.”

“No, NO. Don’t give in. Don’t think like that. Worse comes to worse, I should be missed at St. Mungo’s by Tuesday, and you with Madam Maelstrom.”

“Yes, but even if someone does notice our absence, they’ll be more likely to send a nasty howler than to come in person to our flat to check on us.” Sherlock shuddered. “They’ll most likely show up a week later to discover our dried-out carcasses.” 

“Stop it,” John hissed. “We’ll have none of that. The human body can go three days without water, and surely this magic will wear off before then. At the very least the swelling should go down and we can get ourselves untangled, and get help.”

“Merlin’s beard.” Sherlock had gone white.

“Don’t ‘Merlin’s beard’ me! What is it?” 

“We aren’t speaking English.” Sherlock whispered. “I believe we’re using the Merpeople's tongue.” 

“Good God, I think you’re right.” John’s eyes widened. Now that he really set his attention to it, he realized that he and Sherlock were making a series of clicks and high-frequency warbles to each other, and not actual human speech at all. “This is some kind side of effect of the magic. Damn it! No wonder the wands didn’t respond to our calls.” John’s spirits slumped. The likelihood that they might make enough noise to attract any neighbors by calling for help had just plummeted.

“Plus I don’t think that three days without water algorithm is going to work here either,” Sherlock admitted ruefully. “We lost a good deal of fluid last night, and I don’t know about you, but I’m dry as a bone. I feel dehydrated already.”

“No magic spell lasts forever.” John said firmly. “This has to wear off eventually. We just have to wait it out. We can do this.”

The time dragged by. They kept speaking to a minimum to save their throats, and even managed to nap again for a few hours. It was late evening before John began to fear that the situation was turning dire. Sherlock hadn’t moved in over an hour. “Sherlock, sweetheart?” John nudged him simply by rocking his hips slightly. It was hard to tell where he ended and Sherlock began as tangled as they were. “Are you still with me?” His throat was so dry it was like rubbing sandpaper together to speak at all. 

Sherlock made a half-hearted bleat in reply. 

“Sherlock, I want you to know how much I love you,” John managed to rasp out. “You are the best and the wisest man I have ever known.”

“John.” Sherlock cracked his eyes a slit to peer at him through the gathering gloom. “We aren’t dying. This isn’t the end. There might still be a way . . ."

“What? What is it?” John was almost afraid to get his hopes up, but any hope was better than nothing.

“When I was a child, after father died, Mycroft made a vow to protect me. Gave me a phrase to say . . . calls him if I need help.”

“You knew this? Six hours ago, and you didn’t _try_ . . . you IDIOT.” John was too weak to work up the righteous head of anger that he might have if he’d had a sip of water over the day, but he did manage to jerk at the tentacles binding them together. Sherlock yipped.

“But John . . . _Mycroft._ ” Somehow the whine came through despite Sherlock’s speaking in clicks and high squeals through a parched throat. 

“Does he speak Mermish?” John scraped out.

“One way to find out,” Sherlock whispered. 

“Now,” John ground out. “Do it now.” 

Sherlock cleared his moistureless throat as best he could, and croaked “Mycroft, I admit I need your help.” 

In a whirl, Mycroft appeared next to the bed in his pin-striped grey robe. They must have looked a terrible sight as he didn’t even bother with wisecracks before summoning tumblers of water that he carefully raised to their cracked lips. With a move of his wand, he pulled a sheet over them, then called in the Magical Accidents team from St. Mungo’s. 

.oOo.

It was an awful, humiliating experience, but the healers were able to numb their tentacles, and coax them carefully apart. They were both kept well-hydrated in a private room at hospital, and 24 hours later, the magical appendages and concaves finally shrank away. Mycroft gave them an early wedding present a month later of obliviating the memories of anyone who remembered the incident, and their case was kept in St. Mungo’s records simply as “tentacle patient 1” and “tentacle patient 2.” John had taken a lot of crap at his training classes in the meanwhile. Everyone had called him “octo-boy” for weeks.

It was true though that later Sherlock had gone back, and studied the potion more closely. Though they never tried the stuff again themselves, working with the brew eventually helped him develop an elixir for permanent sex reassignment for the transgendered. Sometimes lemonade did come from a torturous day spent without water chained to one’s beloved John conceded. There was no way in blazing hell though that either of them were unearthing this story for Dominique Weasley, and the reading public of _Witch Weekly_. Maybe later – for their memoirs in their grey years John thought wryly.

“Rhino Balm,” Sherlock blurted. 

“Pardon?” Dominique raised her eyebrows politely. 

“I accidentally discovered Rhino Balm as I was trying to devise a solution to remove freckles. It renders the user’s skin impervious to harm for up to 12 hours.”

“Oh yes, I know that one.” Dominique leaned in, smiling. “My Uncle Charlie uses it in his work with dragons. So, did you discover the Freckle-B-Gone solution later? I put that on ALL the time.”

“No. Sadly one of my competitors beat me to it.” Sherlock shook his head, and reached for his cup of tea only to find that it had gone cold. 

“Oh, that’s a shame.” Dominique frowned. 

John pressed his lips tightly together as he glanced at Sherlock. The rush of love and pride at knowing this man filled him quite completely. Later, Sherlock pulled a funny face at him over Dominique’s head as she turned to pull a fresh scroll from her bag, and he had to cough to hide his laughter.

They navigated their way through several more innocuous questions, and a bit more chatting about the local weather, and the plants growing in their garden before they could wrap things up. Dominique knelt down for a final pat with Emma, who was madly thumping her tail against the floor, before rising to say her good-byes.

“Sherlock, John. Thank you both so very much. I think this interview will make an excellent article for our readers.” 

“Not at all.” John smiled at her. “We were happy to do it.” 

Sherlock made a vague hmphhing noise, but he got up with John to see their guest to the door. 

“Thank you again,” Dominique said, turning at the doorstep to shake their hands in turn. "I do appreciate the time you spared for me."

"You're very welcome," John assured her. "Tell Teddy and Victoire we said hello." 

“Miss Weasley, you have the makings of a fine journalist. I have no doubt that you will continue to be a credit to your chosen profession,” Sherlock said, giving her hand a final warm squeeze before releasing her. 

“Oh, thank you. So much.” Dominique had blushed nearly crimson again. "Bye, now!"

They held their hands up in farewell, framed in the doorway together, as Dominique hurried down the walk for a last wave before apparating away. 

“Did you really think so?” John asked Sherlock as he pushed the door closed, easing Emma who had trotted up behind them back inside with one foot. 

“Think what, John?” 

“That Dominique was a credit to journalism?”

“She’ll do no worse than most, surely," Sherlock mused, lifting his shoulders in a very Gallic half-shrug. "No, mostly I just wanted to leave her with a final overwhelming emotion. It will colour her memory of the interview, and she’ll be less likely to recall any awkwardness on our part during the middle.” 

“You sly dog,” John said pulling his husband in for a kiss. “Have I told you I love you lately?”

“You have, but it isn’t something I ever tire of hearing.” Sherlock smiled. "I love you too,” he said, dipping down to press his lips over John’s upturned mouth.

\- FIN -


End file.
